


comfort, in all its forms

by Makimii



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Character Study, Developing Friendships, M/M, Magic, Potions, References to anxiety/depression, witch!Mark, word : monachopsis, word : silience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23399008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makimii/pseuds/Makimii
Summary: “You're what I needed, I think. Someone to really just wake me up.”“Then, I guess it was fated for us to meet.”-For years, Mark has been running his family’s old potions-shop by himself, constantly chasing a perfect solitude. But, his philosophies change when Lucas comes into his life, looking for the one thing the witch can’t make.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49
Collections: OBSCURE SORROWS FIC FEST





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Monachopsis •  
>  _n._ the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place... unable to recognize the ambient roar of your intended habitat, in which you’d be fluidly, brilliantly, effortlessly at home.
> 
> Silience •  
>  _n._ the kind of unnoticed excellence that carries on around you every day, unremarkably... which would be renowned as masterpieces if only they’d been appraised by the cartel of popular taste, who assume that brilliance is a rare and precious quality, accidentally overlooking buried jewels that may not be flawless but are still somehow perfect.
> 
> thanks to the mods of the fest!! this was such an interesting concept, and i’m so glad i got to be a part of it ❤️

Mark would probably describe his days as _comfortable_. Relaxing. Watching light filter through flat gemstone discs hanging like wind-chimes by the tall windows and observing the dust he’d missed during tedious cleaning sessions drift through daylight, hearing the fizzles and pops of his dad’s old jazz records as the serene music fills the building. Mornings always start routinely—grab a piece of fruit for breakfast, shower and change and get presentable-looking, get downstairs by 6 o’clock. Unlock the shop door and flick the lights on, take a peek at which houseplants needed to get watered, bring out any new batches of remedies and potions made the night before and put the talismans back onto their stand. Then, set up a record, take a seat at the counter, and wait for customers to wander inside. Like magic, they always did; and, just as magically, the interactions rarely bothered him.

The building—with its potions-shop on the first floor, lovingly named The Healer’s Home—was passed down the Lee lineage of witches over the century, from Mark’s great-grandma to his grandparents to his father, and now to him. And he carries that responsibility with pride. 

The outside walls are a sweet shade of honeysuckle yellow, picked out by his brother Donghyuck before the younger boy moved out to the west coast. The furniture was all either thrifted or taken from his mom’s old apartment, and the giant fronds sitting by the western windows and on the front porch have been there since he was a baby. The workshop in the back is simple, plain—just a stove and cabinets upon cabinets of dry ingredients and recipe books and storage for pots and stereotypical cauldrons, just like it‘s always been. The little living space on the second floor, once occupied in the summers by Taeyong, his cousin, when he drove home from his college in Sedona, has all its original creaky wood furniture and beaten-up rugs and sun-faded photographs, plus all the posters Mark stole from Taeyong through the years and a few busted, unplayable records and a clutter of succulents on the bathroom windowsill. Wistfulness fills every square inch of the house. 

Mark loves every square inch of the house, too. Maybe those two things have something in common.

• 

Early on a calm, quiet day, the bell at the door dings and a customer pokes his head inside. Mark instinctively looks to the front of the store as the cold outside air drifts in and the noisy bell cuts through a trumpet solo from one of the less scratchy vinyls.

The guy is tall—taller than Mark, at least—with half of his rosy-cheeked face covered up in a scarf and the fuzzy hood of his coat covering the rest of his head. His eyes, just barely visible through all of that, scan the shop as if he’s lost, or if he'd been stopped in front of a glistening waterfall.

“Hello,” he calls out—his voice is low and quiet, but admirably, it carries like a stage actor’s.

Mark waves him in from the counter. “What are you looking for?”

“Uh.” He pulls back the scarf, gives a sheepish grin, and takes off his hood, adjusting gold-framed glasses and waving his ruffled black hair away from his eyes. He starts to wipe his feet against the doormat, leaving little tracks of snow on it. “I wanted to ask you if you had something.”

• 

The boy’s name is Lucas. Xuxi for short, he had said with a boxy smile, if Mark prefers it—most of his friends call him that. 

Afternoon light sits like fresh snow at the windows, clean and bright and comfortably warm. The amethyst discs leave rosy shades against their faces and the tiny two-seat table. Mark finds himself playing with the overhanging leaves of a bush plant sitting on the tall windowsill, observing the strange sense of nervousness building in his chest as he watched the boy sitting across from him.

“I'm not your friend, though. Isn't it a little weird?”

Lucas gives him a look.

“Ah-h, fine. I'm Mark. But, um... what did you wanna ask me?”

Lucas hesitates for a moment before squirming in his seat, straightening up his posture. “Well, I was sure you didn't have it on your list, but... my issue is, one of my friends from childhood moved across the state last year, and before he left we had... started drifting apart?”

“So, you...”

“Do you think you could make a potion to help me, I guess, mend that bond?” A rock sinks in Mark’s stomach. He watches ruefully as the boy keeps trying to explain himself: “Not in the, like, _forget everything I did and go and phone me_ way, but in the way that, maybe I can reach out easier and he'll listen for a little bit longer and... are you okay?”

“Uh... yes, I—” Lucas’ gaze bores into him. His heart starts racing. “I don't think I can do that.” 

“Really?” The boy seems confused, as if all his preconceptions got uprooted. The same phrase starts repeating itself in Mark’s head: _Nothing I do can make this better._

“Well, I… you see... potions—every magic, like spells, charms, anything—they need you to have gone through an experience that relates to it. Magic is personal, really personal, in that way. And, I don't have the experience to help make this. If I tried, even if I tried really hard, I'm worried it would make the issue worse.”

Lucas keeps staring at Mark’s hands; they're trembling, that's why, as if the pain of the situation had finally caught up to the rest of his body. His head is racing—is he overreacting? Is _this_ why he doesn't talk to people?

“I understand.” The boy gives a smile—a gentle one, warm like the sun pouring in on them through the windows. “I understand. Thank you for your honesty.” He adjusts the sleeves of his grey sweater, then extends his grin up to the ceiling, scanning over the different plant holders and trinkets hanging from hooks tacked into the wooden beams. Something in Mark's brain lurches to a stop; he looks down at himself embarrassedly, his heart still thrumming but his thoughts devoid of any real fear. “It's so pretty.”

“Ah, yeah, it was all my family's job, pretty much. They put a lot of work into it.” The thought brought him a few years back, when Taeyong had pulled into the back driveway with his old rusty pickup truck filled with a bunch of plants and wood planks—the latter, he tinkered with in his grandpa's old woodshop, until they returned as a collection of simple but pretty shelves by mid-August. Then, when Hyuck was put in charge of installing them, half of them _just so happened_ to have become the same yellow as the outside of the building. After that, his other more distant cousin, Johnny, who was taking a well-needed break from settling into his apartment in Toronto, painted a big purple flower onto one of them. Mark instinctively looked back at that mess of a shelf behind the store counter, at all its messy craftsmanship and chipped paint, and felt a little wistful pang in his heart. “I'm not the best with decorating, I think. I'm better with potions, magic stuff, cleaning, whatever. And growing plants—you know, _green thumb_ and all.”

“Right. It's cool, how much you care for the place.”

“Well, I don't know why I wouldn't,” Mark says, edging around the compliment.

Lucas grins again, covering up a laugh, as he pushes himself off the chair. As if his feet led him more than his brain did, he starts wandering around the space; Mark watches tensely, thrumming his fingers against his legs and bitterly observing the way all these half-baked emotions still tugged at him.

The boy’s eyes stay fixed on the rafters. Purples and greens dance across his face, specks of color against his monochrome color scheme. “Ooh, they’re… little crystals?”

Mark follows the boy’s gaze. “Yes, yeah, they are.” A clutter of crystal rods dangle from one of the wood beams, glinting in the mid-afternoon sunshine. “The pink ones are rose quartz. My grandma loved crystals—she said that those bring love, or happiness. Something cozy.”

“And the yellow ones?”

“Mm... I think that's citrine. My cousin chose them. I think it was just because they're a pretty color, though.” 

Maybe he did, but there's no real way of knowing. Mark hadn't ever had a chance to look it up; Johnny took their grandma's crystal book a long time ago. But when he had seen his cousin on the last day of his visit propped up on a stool with a contented smile, hanging the sparkly crystals across the ceiling, the guy only told him, _They’re for you._

Lucas just grins to himself in response, then finally brings his gaze down from the ceiling as he kept strolling along, letting his hand float across the crowded tabletops. He stops at each of the displays, intently reading the little cards with lists of ingredients and powers, asking little questions as they popped into his mind. The knot of emotion in Mark’s chest fades away, slowly.

•

“You know,” Lucas starts thinking out loud, quickly making his way back to Mark from across the store with his stupidly long legs. “It feels like I’ve stepped into a whole different world.”

In a sense, Mark agreed. The boy’s voice and quiet footsteps did feel like a welcome intrusion into his afternoon, breaking through the strangely monotonous jazz music with a glimpse into the town surrounding him and his shop. Maybe, he got to thinking, he was a little too lonely, no matter how outrageous the idea was after all the years of solitude.

“I… guess so.” The words came out hollow; Lucas turned back to Mark, something like worry in his eyes.

“Hmm. Mark,” the boy asks, “can I ask a question? It might be uh, maybe a little too personal, though.”

Mark nods slowly, feeling a bit of dread writhe in him.

“When was the last time you went out and did something for yourself? Something, I guess, not work related?”

“Oh. Two months ago, my brother had a family Christmas party.”

Lucas snorts at him. “That’s a holiday.”

“And?”

“It doesn’t really count. Anything before that?”

Mark thinks for a second, a long second, and shakes his head.

“I know I don’t really know you all that much, but you should take a break.”

Mark opens his mouth to rebuke it, but no real argument comes to mind. “I… _yeah_ , I don’t know what to do, though. There’s no reason to take a day off if I’m just sitting here, doing nothing.”

“Then…” Lucas contemplates with a little huff, looking out the window as if he was scanning the street for ideas. “Just, go out, take a walk, visit a café?”

Mark sighs, hesitant to give any answer. He can’t tell whether the presence of this mostly unfamiliar boy giving him some of the most helpful emotional support he’d ever been given is comforting or embarrassing. 

“I—“ He stops himself, gawks for a moment in awkward silence, then continues: “I guess..?”

“I could give you some recommendations, if you want. Or,” he adds, trying not to let out a sheepish laugh, “I could just show you them myself.”

The back of his mind screams at him, warning it would be the dumbest choice of his life, but Mark still can’t help but smile at the offer.


	2. Chapter 2

“I usually say, maybe we do live in a cheesy little town in the middle of nowhere, but in my opinion there’s still a lot to appreciate. Right?”

Mark nods along absentmindedly, too caught up in watching Lucas’ little car glide along the road that winds through the meadow, passing thickets of tall grasses and tiny pink flowers. The sun is still rising, leaving light to glint on the surface of the lake that sits alongside the road and for fuzzy golden hues to catch in Lucas’ hair.

“I think we end up in the places we’re in for a reason,” Lucas says, decisively thrumming his fingers against the stick shift.

“Hmm. Like fate?”

The boy shrugs. “Maybe. We’re meant to deal with what comes to us, wherever we end up. I mean, how different would your life be if you grew up in like _New York_ , or something?”

“I mean… I wouldn’t be _here_.”

“Yeah. Everything would be different. Your personality, your views, your relationships.” He leads the car onto a dusty side-road, continuing their path along the shore of the lake. “We were meant to be what we are. I guess it is like fate.”

Mark has to blink his eyes a bit, trying to get over the shock of it. Maybe 10 am is still a little too early to question the very fabric of existence.

The dirt road travels maybe a quarter or so of the lakeside before veering off into the meadow, climbing up a steady slope covered in wildflowers and grass turned gold by the morning sun. Then, as the car reaches the peak of the slope, Lucas slows her down, reducing the pace to a crawl. Outside the boy’s window is a tiny, lush cliffside overlooking the water that Mark can’t help but gawk at.

The car stops, gently. Though the boy’s face is pressed against the window, Mark is pretty sure that he’s beaming. “Wo-ah. Perfect, right?”

Contentedness swells up in Mark’s chest. “Right.”

•

Mark watches, rubbing the edge of the picnic blanket between his fingers, as Lucas darts around the field across the tiny road, picking flowers. The sun shines sweetly upon the scene, a gentle warmth on Mark's face; the water below the cliffside rumbles in minuscule tides against the rocky shore.

“ _Mark!!_ ” He looks up, watching as Lucas shows off an armful of wildflowers like a dog proudly showing off a toy. Mark grins back, and the boy bounds back to him through the field, leaping across the road in two long strides and trotting up to the blanket.

“I've never looked around here before. There's so many asters, wow,” Lucas says, dropping his stash next to their bowl of fruit and picking one of the strawberry slices. “D’you know how to make flower crowns?”

Mark laughs. It’s a stupidly cute craft, enough to melt his heart. “No.”

“I'll teach you, then!” The boy plops down next to Mark, handing him a small bundle of the wildflowers. He himself takes two of the white asters, crossing one stem over the other's. “All you do is loop this one—“ he waves the stem of the vertical one— “around the other, like this.” He bends the stem up, behind the horizontal flower, and back around itself in a loop. “Easy.”

Mark nods in agreement. “Easy, mhm.” He takes his pile of flowers and starts working through them, braiding the stems together and watching Lucas’ progress to see if he was doing it correctly. He is, the boy keeps assuring him, and nothing about it needs to be perfect anyways.

Maybe halfway through, Lucas starts humming something, a song that's vaguely familiar yet too far off from anything Mark’s listened to recently for him to remember. And somewhere around that time, too, he finds himself leaning against the boy's shoulder, happy to listen.

•

“Im gonna check if mine is done, really quick. Aw, yours looks so sweet so far!”

“Thank you,” Mark chuckles, lifting his head off the boy's shoulder, “but, I don’t know, I think it’s too plain. Maybe I need to add something.”

Lucas gives him a snort. “You always can,” he tells him, incredulous but understanding. He bows his row of flowers into a hoop, connecting the two ends. “It’s not done until you say it is. Can I put this on you?”

“Sure.” Lucas faces him and carefully places the flowers atop his head like he's crowning a king; immediately, the boy is beaming.

“It's perfect! You look so cute.”

Mark can't stop himself from laughing, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment, surprise, and appreciation sitting in his chest. “That's because it's so nice!”

“So is yours!” Lucas retorts, mimicking Mark's tone. The two of them giggle at each other—Mark’s already growing a little fond of the type of playful friendship that’s beginning to bud between them.

Mark takes his spot back, resting on Lucas’s shoulder as he keeps knotting the daisies together. Lucas is nearly done tying his up, grinning fondly as the little crown begins to come together.

“I'm giving mine to you,” Lucas declares.

Mark jumps. “No! You made it, keep it."

Lucas snorts at him again. “Pfft! Did Van Gogh keep all his paintings?”

“ _Yes_? He did?"

“Well fine, but I don't care,” Lucas says decidedly, “and besides, you can give me yours if you want. Like a trade.”

Mark looks back down at his unfinished braid, messy and a little depressing in comparison. “Yeah-h, but—“

“You're doing good!” Lucas laughs. “Making art! And either way, it's yours and you made it, and that matters more to me than how it looks.”

As if the flower crowns didn't melt his heart enough, that made Mark's chest nearly hurt with the sentiment. “Hmmph. Fine, you can have it,” he pouts back, trying to hide it.

•

Mark keeps fussing with the flower crown on his head— _his_ flower crown now, since the two traded them. One of its bushy purple flowers keeps falling into his face, blocking his eyes.

Lucas, with his own little halo of daisies, has his hands on the steering wheel of the car again, watching their surroundings in sheer bliss as they leave a thin patch of trees behind and return to the vast meadows. Mark knew the world is big, but he’d never really comprehended just how much space there was between their town and the next few cities over, let alone the thousands of miles he’s traveled across the States that planes make feel like nothing.

He clears his throat before speaking, making sure his vocal cords wouldn’t give in on him. “Wow. Luc.” Lucas lets out a little puff of laughter, then breaks his gaze from the road. “This is the first time I left the house for a week.”

“How..?” The boy turns his attention back. “That’s not healthy—I mean, probably, at least.” Mark contemplates it, then nods ashamedly. “You just have to get more used to being with people.”

“Isn’t that kinda… intimidating, though?”

“Well.” Lucas’ eyebrows furrow a little. “Not when you realize you deserve it.”

Silently, Mark disagrees. _The world is scary._ The thought leaves a pang, a persistent, irritating longing for change in the back of his mind.

Ahead of them, alongside the road, is a giant worn-down building, peeling with paint and completely barren of any sign of life. Tall flowering weeds grow along the sides of the walls. A weakly-supported gap stands where a door and its wood frame must’ve once been before. Lucas stops the car right in front of it.

“It looks like it would’ve been more _New England_ -y than anything else around here,” the boy observes, a bit of wonder in his voice. Mark adjusts the sleeves of his t-shirt and nods, confused.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

Mark shrugs and says honestly, “I just think it’s kinda sad.”

Lucas hums at him. An appreciative silence hangs in the air.

“…Wanna check it out?”

“Uh…” He hesitates, then shrugs again. “Why not.”

Soon enough, the two are clambering out of the car, bounding up the grass-infested pathway and past the big wooden porch and into the tiny, bright hallway. Light fills the room with a sunset glow, filtering in honey shades through the old, grimy glass of the tall windows. Every floorboard, bowed and bent from the years of solitude, creaks under their feet begrudgingly. In the air is a strong yet pretty musty smell, like the scent off the pages of an old book.

Mark watches as Lucas warily steps into the center of the first big, circular room, a quiet look of awe on his face as he studies the space around him. “The floors were built really sturdy,” he says, almost to himself. His words echo through the room like how a butterfly floats among flowers. “That's impressive. Especially for how long it looks like this building’s been sitting here. Honestly?” He looks up at Mark, who’s carefully making his way to the entryway of the room despite Lucas’ approval of the place. “It's insane that it hasn't collapsed yet. It was built strong.”

“How can you tell that?” Mark asks.

“Well, it's... my job. My dad works a lot in restoring houses. I joined in when I finished school.” The boy thinks for a little, then gently lowers himself onto the ground, crossing his legs and setting his elbows onto his knees. “C’mere, this feels like a good place for conversation.”

Mark tiptoes into the room. “What type of conversation?”

“Wherever it leads us, you know? I mean, until we need to get back to town.”

“Yeah.” He sits down, facing Lucas. The boy takes his hand, holding it softly; Mark takes a mental note that the boy's eyes are soulfully pretty, enough to get lost in, then decides that, most likely, there’s many better things to get lost in than in someone’s eyes. “Yeah,” he repeats, “I don’t know what to talk about.”

“Well... I wondered, since you don't go out, like... what do you do?”

Mark sighs. It's nice, talking and all, but it always wraps back around to him and his job and the house, like Lucas means to hit him in the worst spots possible.

“I don't know, I just work around the store.”

“No, I mean. What do you _do?_ ”

Mark stares at him blankly for a second until the realization hits. “Oh, I... I don't know. I write a bit.”

“I mean, there's a lot of different types of writing.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I guess…. Poems—or, I don’t know, kind of poems. But—it’s so hard to describe, but... sometimes someone walks into the store and you think, like, they’re able to whistle or sing really well, or they have good fashion, and you kinda get this feeling from them that they're completely infinitely interesting, and...” The longing seeps in again, slowly, from the back of his mind. Lucas squeezes his hand a little. “When I feel that, I get inspired.”

“People are inspiring, yeah,” Lucas smiles.

“They are, but... you know, why should inspiration rely on others?” The smile wipes cleanly off Lucas’ face. “Any situation should be as inspiring as another.”

“Mark.” Lucas laughs a bit, staring at him as if his mind was about to explode. “Mark, humans are social. Loneliness crushes you if you aren't careful.”

“Yeah. Fine, but Luc, I'm not lonely,” Mark snaps back. “I know that's what you're trying to get at with me. I know. I _know_. But... I'm not.”

The room goes silent. The sun shifts between the windows; direct sunlight pours onto them, warm and soft, illuminating the floating specks of dust that tread the air.

Eventually, Lucas sighs and shifts in his spot, putting another hand on top of Mark’s. Something tightens in the back of his throat.

“You haven't known me that long. It's stupid to worry so much about me.” Lucas gives him a look that tells just how wrong he is.

“I’m not worried. I’m just giving advice.” He sits back, rightening himself up. “Everyone needs advice sometimes.”

Mark huffs, looking back up at the ceiling and its peeling paint. His focus gets caught by it, following the ravines of the broken, age-stained stucco and the cobweb-covered space between the wood of the entryway and the ceiling. “This is kinda inspiring, but, just, in a really weird way.” Lucas makes a confused noise at him. Mark can’t describe it either; maybe, he thinks, the strange way the musty air and distorted light, the years of care and love and abandonment the house had gone through leaves infinite questions in his head, endless wonders and possibilities.

He imagines himself sitting in the room by himself, with a book and a pen on his lap, and the illusion dissipates. The loneliness and the deafening echo of his own thoughts crushes the perfect scene, and he realizes that maybe, in fact, Lucas is a bit more knowledgeable than he first thought.

•

Lucas pats Mark on the shoulder, making the boy lift his head as they slow to a stop in front of the store. Immediately, he notices himself thinking back to the plants on the front porch and if he'd watered them enough, as if one bad week would kill a huge, ancient fern, and tiredly rationalizes the thought away.

“Back home.”

Mark mopes at him, sulking in the seat. “Do you need to be home anytime soon?”

Lucas rests his elbow onto the window and forces back a smile. “I... don't think so.”

“Can you stay here for a little while? Until the sun sets, at least?”

“Of course,” Lucas laughs, parking the car.

•

Lucas looks especially comfortable—though he's never looked anything less than comfortable ever since Mark met him—as he sits at the top of the porch steps, leaning against one of the wooden posts. The sky makes its slow shift into sunset; in the light, the boy, along with the world around him, is painted in shining orange tones.

Mark hands a glass of lemonade over to the boy as he trots out onto the porch again, regarding his sweet thank-yous with a nod, and sits across the steps with his own glass. He looks out to the road, at cars that drift by every once in a while and the bit of the river that peeks through the gap between two houses, and the clutter of gold-tinged trees behind that.

“It's so nice out here.”

Mark knows he should be calmed by it all. But still, his mind spins.

“I don't usually do this, either, though.”

Lucas looks up mid-sip. “Mm?”

“I don't sit out here a lot. Thinking about it, it's kinda weird.”

Lucas huffs and puts the glass down at his side. “It's your porch, though.” Mark hums in agreement. “Mark, that's what I mean. You're confined.”

“I guess.” He takes a big sip of lemonade.

“This isn't my job,” Lucas contemplates out loud, “but I want to at least help you. I wanna bring you back _here_. Back to the world. Being all alone, out in space... I don't care what you say, but it wears on you.”

“I mean... I...” Mark forced his mouth shut, letting himself think for a moment. “Of course. It does. People wander in and you kinda envy how comfortable and _happy_ they are. And—“ The back of his throat aches at him again. “Lucas, god, _how_ much do you want to make me cry?”

Lucas gives an apologetic look. “Will it help you, if you do?”

“Maybe.”

“Well...” Lucas calls him over, tapping the porch floor lightly. Reluctantly, Mark makes the move across the step and settles in next to the boy, curling up against him. The boy puts an arm around his back; a barrier inside him crashes down, and Mark feels his eyes cloud up with tears.

“Oh.” Worry shows up in the boy's eyes.

Mark rubs his face with his wrist. “No. It's okay, it's okay. I... god, I'm so lost. My... my family, they were my world. They still _are_. I never really looked beyond them when I was a kid, they were all so close, all the time. Then, my cousins all went to college, and my brother took my parents with him when he moved to California, and after that they all stopped visiting because, honestly, what else is there here other than me and the shop—and what’s even that important about _that_ , either? They… they let this place go, forgot about it. I can’t do that. _I don’t want to_. But without them, I'm lost. I can't imagine myself anywhere else, but I'm stranded out here.”

The last words come out in a painful croak; Mark buries his head in his arms. He feels the hand on his back move up to his head.

“You aren't stranded,” Lucas sighs. “You just need to leave your comfort zone behind. You need to let people know that, _woah, hey. You exist!_ You _exist_... you deserve appreciation. And, if you really want to stay here that much, you have to learn that.”

“That’s not easy.”

Lucas nods solemnly. “It isn’t. But, I think you just have to suck it up and get outside.” Mark laughs dryly at that. “No, I’m serious! You need to… reintroduce yourself, realize that you aren’t as bad or annoying as you think you are.”

“But what if nothing changes?”

“No. It will. It’ll get better, because you deserve better.” The boy thinks for a little while, sipping on the lemonade. “You will get past it. You just need to remember: it'll get better. Life gets better.”

Mark found even more tears in his eyes than before. “I...” The word sits painfully in his throat; he shoves his head onto Lucas’ shoulder instead, too tired to talk. And they stay there for a while, probably even a little too long, as Mark focuses on matching his friend’s breathing, on the hug and the warmth within the cold air of the evening, on the boy’s hands rested comfortingly on his back. 

“Are you alright?” Lucas asks quietly, almost as if he’s scared to break the silence.

Mark makes a noise in agreement and takes his head away from Lucas’ shoulder. 

“Okay.” The boy gives a final squish to the hug. He sets his empty glass under the other half-full one and picks himself up from off the steps. “I think,” he mumbles, “it's time for me to get going. But... listen.” Mark hums and rightens himself up as Lucas kneels onto the porch steps again, getting them back to eye level. A little smile, hopeful and gentle, crosses his face.

“The world really is waiting for you, Mark. And, if it's any more motivation, I'm waiting for you too. I think you're gonna do great things for yourself, when you put your mind to it.”

“Well. We'll see.”

“We'll see,” Lucas repeats, grinning again. “Phone me whenever you feel like it. Most likely, I'll be there.”

Mark nods. Satisfied, Lucas makes his way back to his car, treading through the golden light of the evening, and drives off.


	3. Chapter 3

Summer is an eventful season for Mark—more eventful than usual, at least. A while away from town, maybe a quarter-hour drive, the river running through town feeds into a giant lake, the centerpoint of some touristy Summer village. But being the next closest place with a campy market square, visitors would flood the town in the midday. Although it was nice—the revenue was nice, the people were nice—any conversations that customers started ended with Mark fumbling for words and responses, embarrassment flooding his senses and making it even harder to get the words out of him. 

But the shift also brought Lucas’ constant presence. Some mornings, when temperatures reach 70 degrees before the sun can even rise above the trees, Lucas slips his way into the store as the witch eats his breakfast of strawberries or papaya. He wanders around and chats, sometimes arranging the shelves, not exactly helping with cleaning but at least providing someone to talk to. Sometimes he finds Mark hunched up at the counter, tired and overwhelmed and too unwilling to face his worries on his own, and opens all the windows as much as he can and leans their heads together, listening as Mark suddenly feels safe enough to think. And sometimes, the morning is good enough that before the day truly begins, the two wander upstairs and sit on the soft, oddly-pattered couch in the living room with Mark’s head on Lucas’ lap, telling stories of Mark’s sudden sparks of inspiration and of whatever weird things Lucas tries to make at his uncle's pastry shop. And he’d stay, at least until lunchtime, like a guardian angel watching over the store, leaving reluctantly with sweet farewells and a hug or pat on Mark's head.

Lucas is perfect, Mark thinks. And the boy's passion and care amazes him, no matter how much he finds himself basking in it. 

On an August afternoon so stiflingly hot that Mark feels close to breaking a sweat, Lucas decides to spin him around and hold him by the shoulders, a question dancing in his eyes. 

Mark, startled out of his mind, laughs way too awkwardly. “What? Wh—“

“I have an idea.” Giddiness shines through the boy’s voice.

“Uh..... Yea?”

“Tomorrow's gonna be hot as hell.” Mark nods in agreement. “So. Do you think... you think you’d be able to maybe... not open the shop?”

Mark's face scrunched up. “What for?”

“Well...” Lucas grins slyly at him. “Maybe, we can drive out to the city early in the morning, go on one of the hikes nearby there before it gets too hot..?”

“I haven't been in the city in years.”

“So is that a yes?”

Mark lets out an exasperated sigh. “I guess so.”

As usual, Lucas beams at him. “That's good enough. But, I have another idea too. Uh... if you'd want, how about a sleepover? If, well, if we have to wake up so early, it'd be easier to just get up and go.”

“And... where are we doing that?”

“Well—uh... not my house. It's a mess.”

“Fine, then. We'll make it work, here. Just come back with your stuff whenever you’d want.”

“Oh—perfect!” Mark is nearly swept off his feet as the boy throws him into a hug. “I'll see you later, then. Good luck!” 

“Thank you for your help today, Luc,” Mark says.

Lucas snorts at him. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s better to help you out than to just sit and do nothing all morning.”

•

Lucas returned after sunset, with an unreasonably oversized shirt draped over his shoulders and an overpacked satchel at his side.

“Sleep time?” 

“It's like, 8 pm,” Mark retorted. 

“And? It's Summer. It's hot, it's sleepy, the sun’s almost gone. It could be sleep time if you want it to be.”

Mark shrugged, unable to think of anything to counter it, and let the boy inside. 

And now, as they talk on the old couch, condensation-covered glasses of water in their hands, Mark realizes that he isn't all that prepared for a sleepover. His bed’s not the biggest thing in the world, and at least one of them would be pushed against the wall if they tried to sleep there together; the couch is comfy, but only for a while, until the squishy cushions and lack of support cause back pains that could last for a good day or so. Aside from that, he’s out of ideas. If anyone has to get a sore back, though, it’ll be him. 

“Me and my dad were finishing up on leveling out a sunroom from this _giant_ old house that’s been sinking for, maybe, 50 years,” Lucas babbles, sitting like he usually does at Mark’s house—legs crossed and brought close to his body, with his back leant onto the big squishy throw pillow on the right side of the couch. Mark never sat normally, either, so it wasn't all that strange to him.

“But, it was almost 100 degrees—“

Lucas shakes his head. “Carpentry doesn’t stop for heat. Those guys are _made_ out of resilience. So, you know, I have to keep up.”

“That’s so crazy.”

“Well, magic is pretty crazy, too. I guess we’ve got something in common there.”

Mark shrugs and sighs, “I guess so.” He crosses his legs in front of him, mimicking Lucas. “But, otherwise?”

“Otherwise? Oh—“ He plays with his hands, thinking up an answer. “Well, this summer’s been much better than my last.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Now that coming here’s become a part of my routine.” The boy gives a cheesy smile, and Mark jokingly shields his eyes from it. “Ugh. C’mon, accept my appreciation.”

Mark laughs, a cheesy little _hee-hee_. Instinctively, Lucas mimics it.

“O—oh!” The pillow from Mark’s side flies across the couch and right onto Lucas’ chest. The boy throws it off of himself, gawking and nearly shaking with laughter. “Don’t be mean!”

“Mean? I—You just launched a pillow at me!” Lucas retorts, flinging the thing right back into Mark’s lap. He guards his face with his hands as Mark holds it up again. “No, no, no. Let's make a truce.”

“Alright, fine.” He holds out his hand, and Lucas takes it. “I promise to... well, actually, I can't promise to change anything, because you started it—“ Lucas snorts at that and bows his head, his shoulders shaking with laughter— “but I'll promise not to be mean to you if you promise not to be mean to me.”

“No,” Lucas interjects, “no, hold on. I’ve got a different idea.” Mark makes a confused noise. “No being mean at _all_. Not to each other, not to ourselves.”

“Yeah, but what are you gonna do if I am mean to myself?“

“I'll just fight you. Wait—“

“ _That's being mean to me!_ ”

“No, no, wait, I'll fight you with _kindness_ , make you _really_ regret being mean to yourself. And you'll do the same for me! Yeah.”

“That works,” Mark sighs, and the two shake hands, pretending to be as serious as possible. For a small moment, the room is quiet, until a thought pops back into Mark's head. "Hey."

"Hey?"

“You know, this has been on my mind, I just... I agree with you. What you told me.” 

Lucas gives him a look. “Hm?”

“I am confined. I don't belong here. Well, not _here_ , I mean—I never realized how.... how unfit I am to be alone.”

“Well.” For a second, the boy sits there, deep in thought. “Then, I won't let you be.”

Mark smiles, and tries to hide it behind his glass of water. “I have no clue how you're gonna do that,” he mumbles, “but thank you.”

“I’ll figure it out.” Another pause; then, Lucas downs his water, sets the glass down on the coffee table and holds his arms out to Mark.

“Hm?”

“A _hug?_ ” Lucas laughs.

Mark giggles back, puts his water on the table, and flops across the couch and into Lucas’ arms. A perfect feeling of happiness fills him as the boy pulls him in. “Ah! I'm sorry, I'm crushing you.”

“No! You're, like, a feather.” Mark fake-hits the boy on the shoulder, laughing embarrassedly. “And either way, it's comfy. I'm really comfortable.”

“Agh, I'm just comfortable with you,” Mark confesses. Lucas beams at him, pulling him closer. “You're what I needed, I think. Someone to really just wake me up.”

“Then, I guess it was fated for us to meet.” 

Mark laughs at him.

“No, no, I'm serious!” the boy insists. “I mean, people come into our lives for a reason... we were meant to help each other.”

“ _Each other?_ ” 

“Yeah, of course. I—“ Lucas fumbles around, trying to collect his words. “You've been a wonderful friend. You're a great person to talk to, to hang out with. I've been so happy.”

“Me too... me too.” Giving a little grin to his friend, Mark flips over onto his back. “Do you wanna see something, maybe, kinda cool?”

Lucas grins and holds the boy tighter. “Of course.”

Mark smiles at him and closes his eyes, retreating into his memories, imagining the warm breezes of the deserted California beach during wintertime, the salty taste of the air on his tongue and the murky blue of the freezing water as it rolled onto his feet. His focus goes up to the clouds that rolled across the mid-afternoon sky, and the gulls soaring below them, effortlessly gliding with their ruffled black-and-white feathers, singing their cacophonies into the air. He watches one gull drifting in a perfect circle, and the rest of the scene slowly fades away; its wings shimmer like sunlight, leaving an amber trail in its wake. Mark opens his eyes, and the golden illusion soars around the room, riding a nonexistent wind. 

Lucas gasps, watching with stars in his eyes. “How did you do that?”

Mark reaches a hand out as the bird passes over their heads, feeling the chill of the gold against his fingertips. “He's a memory—but, it's a nice one, I think. I had gone to the beach with my cousin, Taeyong, for Christmas, and... I had missed talking to him so much.” He laughs to himself, and the gull shimmers brighter, sending drops of gold to fall and fizzle away. “He was the most important person in my life. And then, for years, he was gone. It was like a reunion. And that time—the hour we spent there—was the greatest moment of the trip.”

“Magic is personal,” Lucas remembers. 

“Exactly.” Mark shuts his eyes, watching the golden glimmer of the bird shine through his eyelids, and he closes the memory, folding the wings in on itself and letting the gold fade into nothingness. 

“It's beautiful.” 

Tiredness lapped at Mark's mind. “Yeah. It's one of my favorite spells. I always thought he'd have too lame of a story to tell anyone else about, though.” He forced his eyes open and took one of Lucas’ hands. “I'm so happy I met you, Luc.”

“I know.” He sinks down against the pillow, sprawling out across the couch and holding Mark as close as possible, as if the witch was a giant teddy bear. 

“I'm gonna fall asleep on you.”

“That's alright,” Lucas chuckles. “It sounds nice just to sleep here, anyways.”

“I don't know.” Again, Mark turns over, clinging onto Lucas. “We’ll both wake up with hurting backs.”

“Then we’ll just deal with it together. Don’t worry, though. You had a long day—“

“How d’you know that?”

“I know you well enough. You had a long day.” Mark grumbles at him, not wanting to give any real answer. “Goodnight, Markie.”

“Goodnight.”

Maybe it’s still stuffy and humid in the little living room; maybe the ceiling fan barely moves fast enough to cool anything down, and Mark can feel himself getting close to overheating. But, it’s somehow comfortable as he feels the rise and fall of Lucas’ soft breathing, the way his hand rubbed Mark’s back every once in a while as if the boy was even trying to calm him down through his sleep. _It’s crazy,_ he thinks, fighting against his fuzzy, tired brain and its will to sleep, _how he makes every bad thing seem so much better._

•

The sun is barely up, and the vast expanse of trees shields the little road from the rest of the light. And, of course, Mark is falling asleep in his seat.

There's good reason for it. For a few hours the night before, he was restless, worrying about if he'd wake Lucas up if he started snoring—which he wasn't exactly sure he did, but was still conscious of—and it might've taken a little longer than he wanted for him to shut the useless worry off and finally go to sleep. And now, Lucas has this radio station on in the car playing one of the gentlest classical instrumental Mark's ever heard in his life, as if early morning drives weren't inherently relaxing enough. Warm wind from the open windows flows in, buffeting his face and blowing back his hair.

“We only have a few minutes. The hike’ll wake you up,” Lucas tells him, a smile on his face.

“Ah, yeah, the hike,” Mark mumbles in response. He curls up even more and closes his eyes, waiting for the rays of sunlight to reach him.

Unfortunately but unsurprisingly, he falls asleep to the lulling sound of violins. 

•

“You ready?”

Yellow light glistens through the car, a warm splash of light on Mark's face. The sky above is decorated in pinkish clouds. Mark stirs, forcing his eyes open, and takes in their surroundings—the dirt parking lot and the thick foliage, then the forest surrounding it. 

“Mmh. Fine.”

Mark follows behind Lucas, feeling the warmth of the humid air on his skin, his eyes glued to the sky and its fluffy clouds that run across it. Then, the branches cover up the vibrant sunlight, and Lucas leads Mark onto the pebble-covered trail. Birds trill from far-off trees, and golden light spills through the gaps between the leaves. A breeze that Mark hadn't noticed before stirs the low-hanging branches. 

Side-to-side, now, Mark takes Lucas’ hand, and notices the boy grin a little fondly at him. 

“Hm. See, this is what I've been missing for so long,” Lucas sighs. “Just, how nice Summer mornings are.”

“I guess I have been, too.”

“That's alright, though. Sometimes it's easy to forget the things we love the most.” 

Ahead of them, somewhere near the path, is the rush of water as it pours over rocks. Ahead, too, is a boy somewhat older than the two of them crouched by the side of the trail, wearing a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and holding a camera pointed up to the canopies of the trees. 

Lucas calls out to the photographer: “Good morning!” Mark feels himself slowly shrinking behind his friend. 

The man looks behind him, startled, then makes a big, pretty smile. “Oh! How are you guys doing?”

“Pretty good!”

“Mhm, pretty good,” Mark echoes quietly. Lucas looks over to him, a mix of pride and humor in his eyes. 

“Just to let you guys know—“ The man sets his camera gingerly into its case and picks himself up from off the ground— “there's a waterfall on the other trail, across the road.” Mark perks up. “Yeah, it's, well, pretty beautiful. You should check it out—the trail’s a little longer, but less steep than here.”

“We should,” Mark advises Lucas. The boy gives a shrug. 

“Well, if you're going there too, we could walk it together?”

“That sounds nice.” The photographer strolls over and gives a high-five to Lucas, then to Mark. “I'm Taeil. It's good to meet you guys.”

“It's good to meet you too,” Lucas says as the group makes their way back out of the trail. 

•

“Well, it's not exactly photography,” Taeil explains to Mark—there was a constant smile in his eyes, an aura of peace from their new acquaintance, that made it almost easy for Mark to talk to him. “It's for a report. By that river there is a cluster of chrysalises for a species of butterfly that's pretty rare around here. Since I’m the new member on my team, I was sent to record any changes, any hatched cocoons, _et cetera_.”

“That's a nice way to spend a morning,” Lucas interjects. 

“Exactly. It's a beginner job, of course, but it's still pretty fun. Hey, maybe one day I’ll get to study a rare insect. The future’s full of opportunity.”

Mark nods, then excitedly squeezes Lucas’ hand. “Woah, Luc, look.” 

Through the low branches, the pearly gleam of falling water shines in the morning sun, creating a humid, glittery mist around the clearing. Below it is a rocky pool of clear water, encircled by boulders and yellow wildflowers, which runs off into a stream that dives deep into the forest. Mark looks to see Lucas staring at it in awe, and Taeil grinning to himself. 

“I think _pretty beautiful_ was an understatement,” Lucas says. Taeil laughs and takes the path down to the waterfront, sitting on a mist-dampened boulder by the water. The two follow him down, thank him for his help, and wander off along the pebbles and flowers, water droplets catching in their hair and on Lucas’ glasses. 

“There.” The boy breaks away from Mark and romps through a thicket of tall grass to clamber on top of a long, flat rock that juts into the pool. He beckons Mark over. 

Mark carefully crawls onto the stone and slides next to Lucas, holding onto his friend's shoulder. The mist sprays onto their faces, covering their cheeks in glimmering dewdrops. Lucas pulls him a little closer, instinctively, still focused on the rocky cliffside and the tumbling, shining water. There, they sit; the sun peeks above the treetops, forming rainbows and golden droplets within the mist, and the world slowly awakens.

•

Mark, for some reason, can't believe he's been away from the city for so long.

Even through the stifling Summer heat, the streets still bustle with people—residents rushing to work, visitors wandering in and out of stores. A couple sings by the fountain in the city square, the singer holding her partner on her lap as the other plays the accordion, singing cheesy songs and whatever popular tunes the crowd gathered by them recommends. Maybe about a hundred dogs have passed by, tiny and enormous and everything in-between. A group of little kids, under the watchful eyes of their parents, run around the square playing tag, delightedly screaming at each other as kids normally do. In the midst of it all, he feels small, comfortable; unnoticed, but in the best way possible. 

Lucas picks a slice of watermelon off the plate sitting between them. “It's nice, hm?”

His gaze goes to one of the parents instinctively pulling his child away from ramming into a passerby, then to the applause as the performing couple finishes off a song and the accordionist charismatically asks for a final recommendation, and then to some scrawny teenager accidentally caught in the staring who smiles almost as awkwardly as Mark does. He laughs to himself. 

“I never thought that it would be so interesting to just, sit in the center here like this.”

“Ah. Yeah, that's why old ladies love to people-watch.”

“Ah! So we're old ladies now?” Mark jokes. 

Lucas hides his laughter behind the watermelon slice. “Yeah, mhm,” he says with a shrug, “we'll sit out on rocking chairs on our porches and gossip tomorrow.”

“Oh, god, that's so stereotypical. I love it.”

The boy thinks for a moment and changes the subject: “I'm happy you came with me, today.”

“Yeah?” 

“Of course. It's good to get out of the house with a good friend, you know?” 

“Good friend,” Mark repeats, engraining the words into his memory. The sentiment is as heartwarming as the sun that beams onto the city. 

•

The two were lucky that they'd found the dusty little record shop in the city, no matter how long of a walk it was to get there; the flourishing voice of a blues singer floats through the store, and every shelf and tabletop is packed with old records in worn-out sleeves. Mark was never the most comfortable in stores like it, but with Lucas next to him, he was somehow alright.

“Do you need any help finding anything?” 

Mark looks up from the shelf of Art Tatum records and over to the employee trotting over to the two, a small box of CDs in his hands. He has the aura of a college student, with his grown-out hair tied up messily and thin, round glasses placed uncomfortably low on the bridge of his nose. Pinned on his flower-print shirt is a nametag that reads _ten_ in blocky, lowercase lettering. 

Lucas, with a vinyl already carefully tucked under his arm, speaks up as Mark shakes his head: “Oh. Oh, I have a question.” 

“Sure.” Ten readjusts his hold on the box and gives the boy an attentive look. “What's up?”

“Well, what artist would you recommend?”

“Oh my god. Out of _anything?_ ” Lucas nods. “Oh my _god_. Yeah, that's really difficult... but. There's one singer, she... hold on one second, let me go check.” 

The employee carefully sets the CDs next to one of the long tables and rushes back out of the aisle. 

“You ask someone working at a record store to choose their favorite album?” Mark gawks at Lucas. “He's probably listened to more music than we ever could in our lives.”

“Well, of course, but everyone has their favorites,” Lucas explains. “And besides, music can tell you a lot about a person.”

“I guess so.” Mark thinks back to his dad’s stack of records, and how none of the songs ever meant anything more to him than sentimentality, in the end. 

Now, Ten returns with a record in a beaten-up sleeve cradled in his hands. “I found it,” he tells them with a big smile on his face. “It's the best. The _best_. At least, the best I've heard so far.”

Lucas nods and thanks Ten as he takes the record, reading the yellowed back cover before handing it to Mark. Mark thanks the employee, too; Ten holds back a prideful look. 

“Yeah, it's super underrated, in my opinion. Sad, but beautiful. If you ever come back here again when I'm working, tell me if you liked it,” Ten beams, giving a thumbs-up before taking up the little box again.

“Thank you so much,” Mark says before the two leave the aisle, holding the record like how a kid holds onto a cherished toy. 

And out of curiosity, he listens to it. At dusk, when the tepid air blows through the open windows of the shop and the light leaves a dusty pink hue in the air, Mark finds himself sitting by the open front door, listening to the lilt of the singer's voice, the simple sadness against the despair hidden in the lyrics. He watches the streets slowly darken into nighttime, runs his fingers against the splintering wood floors and mulls over the lines, over the loss and the mourning and the hollowing depression. But under all of that, he notices a strange feeling of understanding for Ten, the near-stranger that he'd likely never meet again, and an even stronger appreciation for the people that surround him.


	4. Chapter 4

Late in the evening, as he works on redoing a messed-up batch of elixirs in the potion room, Mark hears the phone by the counter ring. He freezes for a second, then scrambles to turn off the stove, grumbling to himself about the sensitivity of the mixture as he tromps over to the phone and takes it off the receiver. Who was calling him so late? Lucas always called him in the afternoon, right after closing. And come to think of it, those were the only calls he's received, lately. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, Markie, how're you holding up?”

Mark nearly drops the phone out of shock. Usually, if any family called, it’d be his brother, or his father. Hearing Taeyong's voice was the biggest surprise of all. 

“Oh! Oh, hi! I'm doing great, I made a friend, we went to the city—“

“Really?” his cousin exclaims, a hint of surprise, or maybe pride, in his voice. 

“Yeah! It's changed so much since we went together.”

“That's the best part about cities—well, my favorite, at least. I think the change puts others off, sometimes. But, I'm glad you found someone back home. Really. I'd love to travel back and meet them, someday.”

Out of everyone, Taeyong would probably be the one to do it. Mark smiles at the offer. “You think you could?”

“Of course, unless you make it a whole family reunion.” Mark snorted—his cousin had a knack for avoiding almost anything with more than one relative at a time. “But how’s the shop? Is it still going well?”

“Well, it’s not as much money as last year.” Taeyong hums into the phone. “But, it’s alright. I’ve been taking days off—the place is stressful, and—“

“Wait wait, hold on. This is Mark, right?” his cousin jokes. Mark holds his phone away from him as he laughs. “No, I mean, I’ve _never heard that before from you!_ You _should_ do that! I’ve said that for years!”

“Yeah, and I should’ve listened,” Mark agrees. “It’s much better.”

Taeyong lets out a long sigh. “ _Thank you._ ”

“Tae, how’s it going for you, though?”

“Oh! It’s great here too. The weather is perfect, right now. But… I had a question. I was thinking of inviting a few of you guys here for Thanksgiving, if you’d want. It’ll be… very small, but I think it’d be nice.”

“That sounds good.” Thanksgiving was about half a month away; he could likely find a plane ticket for Sedona in that time. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Awesome. I’m really happy for you, Markie.”

“Thanks. I need to get one of the brews done, though, so… I’ll talk to you soon.” Taeyong gave an affirmative noise in response.

“Bye-bye, then. I’ll see you soon.”

“Of course! Goodbye.” He waits for a second and repeats it, hearing Taeyong laugh at him before he hangs up.

For a moment, he stands there, realizing how strangely _nice_ of a conversation it was, and thinking back to the beach last year, back to how nervous he was to even say a single word and how Taeyong had sympathetically led the conversation. He’s changed, after all; the immense feeling lifted a weight off his shoulders. 

He runs back into the potion room, searching the cabinets for a small pot and a recipe book. A few weeks isn’t much time to perfect a potion; but, it’s the best he could do.

•

Adjusting the straps of his backpack and the thick fabric of his coat, Mark walks down the old cracked sidewalk, passing by small, brown-leafed trees and even smaller evergreens, blissfully feeling the cold air on his face. His heartbeat still flares up, sometimes, recoiling away from others passing him by, freezing his vocal cords from even saying _good afternoon._ But, it's all still better than nothing. 

He keeps his eyes on the passing houses; _84_ , an orange-colored two-story with tall windows and, _somehow_ , a perfectly pristine lawn; _87_ , with its white brick walls and black door and big oak tree in the front yard; _90_ , a sunshiny yellow like Mark's shop, with a group of kids laughing and chasing each other through the thick, browning grass. And house _93_ , a tiny one-story house, cream and terra-cotta red with a cobalt blue door. The front yard is an empty garden, like most of the other buildings, with thick bushes and vine plants along the fence that encircles the property. 

Mark hesitates at the gate, hand rested upon the weathered wood, before swinging it open and trotting down the path. A dog barks from inside, its tiny nose and shaggy grey face poking over the windowsill and between the curtains. 

The door opens before he can even reach the front steps. 

“Mark!” Lucas stands in the open doorway, a baffled look on his face. “I thought you'd be gone by now.”

“I have a few hours.” Lucas laughs at him and pulls him over, dragging him into a hug. “I just... I have something for you.”

The smile on Lucas’ face fades; he backs away and watches as Mark pulls a little potion bottle from the side pocket of the backpack. “I don’t know if you still need help with your friend, but...”

“I...” Something like pride shows up in Lucas’s eyes. “Do you wanna come inside for a little while?”

•

The boy's room was more like a closet in size, but it was somehow just what Mark imagined—old, tiny furniture in a bright room, trinkets and books and even folded clothes waiting to be put away set on nearly every inch of surface area. The window looks huge on such a small wall, filling the space with cool light. Somewhere in the house, a kid laughs, and the sounds of footsteps resound around the building and through the thin walls. 

Lucas sits cross-legged on his bed. He gestures for Mark to sit down next to him. Mark follows, clambering onto the fluffy yellow comforter.

“I thought...” Lucas begins, struggling to put his thoughts together. He spins the little bottle in his hand, making a dim trace of silver swirl through the desaturated purple liquid. “I thought you couldn't.”

“Well. Not then. Xuxi, you, pretty much, shoved my ass back into reality. I'm... mending my bond with the world around me, now. I know it's more symbolic than anything else I usually base my potions off of, but in the realm of magic, it counts.” The look on Lucas’ face is a mix of shock and sheer joy, and Mark can't help himself from smiling at it. “It's an elixir, so it's a small bottle, but since you drink it, the effects will last for a while.”

After a moment of silence, Lucas gives a small chuckle and hands the glass back to Mark. “I don't need it.”

Mark nervously laughs back. He'd remembered it all wrong, hadn't he? “I'm sorry—“

“No. No, don't apologize. I don't need it because I reached out to him again,” the boy explains. “To... to my friend. He—Kun, he... he listened.” His leg starts bouncing, and a dark look crosses his face. “Telling you all these things, all these bits of advice, I realized that I was saying everything I needed to hear, too. When I first met you, I... things were _horrible_. I barely felt the energy to get up in the mornings—honestly, _honestly,_ I barely felt. I just turned it all into anger. But Kun was the only person I trusted. And I vented it all out to him until he could barely take it anymore, until he was so worried about me that he couldn't look at me without feeling horrible. Like he did something wrong—he didn't. But I never told him that. And then he moved to Houston, where his mom was, for better opportunities. He called me when he got there, gave me his number, and then, nothing.”

“Nothing?” Mark repeated, his heart sinking.

“Yeah, but, would you call someone who made you feel like shit?” Lucas responded sadly. “He had a good reason. And it made me realize that I had to change. But I _couldn't_. I couldn't get out of it, I was so ruined. So I went to your shop, thinking you'd help me—or at least placebo me—out of my loneliness, and... you helped. I mean, not with magic or anything, but you made me realize that I should start here, maybe take Kun’s position for a while, and really learn about you. I think I gained that strength to apologize to him because of that. And… Mark. He _listened_.”

“I helped you.” The words rattle Mark's brain as he speaks them.

“You did.” Lucas gives him a different smile than usual, one more honest and grateful. He holds his wrists to his eyes for a second, then wipes his face off and grabs Mark's hands. “I'll have bad days, of course. But, you broke through it. You gave me a reason to get up early, to really take care of myself. So... thank you so, so much for working so hard, even if I don't need the elixir. You're the greatest friend I could ask for.”

“And, you're mine,” Mark pulls the boy over, sinking into his arms. “I’d never thought about it like this before but... god, we really are amazing.”

“That's because we're human. That's what happens, when people have a chance to grow.”

•

Summer arrives once again with a full week of rain; light pours in, dim and cool against the sticky air, and drops spatter against the big windows of the shop. Mark sits at the counter, counting the money in the register, forcing his brain to focus until he can't handle holding his thoughts back anymore. 

“Lucas.”

“Hm?” The boy stands just a few steps away with a feather duster in his hand, adjusting the cuffs of his thin button-up. Butterflies are obviously churning in his stomach; the worry gleams in his eyes. “What's wrong?”

“Oh. No, nothing's wrong, I...” He pauses for a second, trying to gather himself, trying to tell himself that no matter the outcome, Lucas would still be there. But still, the boy's choice meant a world of difference. “I know I—neither of us are very mentally healthy, that we still need to grow and get better. But... I don't know if you'd want to or if you'd be ready or able to, but do you think that it'd maybe be easier to get better if we were together?”

“Together—“ Lucas stares at him, his mouth open in shock. “I... are you sure? You really—“

Mark tries to speak, but something stops him—his rushing heartbeat, or the regret already flooding his hopes. He barely gets out a small nod. 

The shop fills with a crushing silence, and the world seems to freeze in time. Then, Lucas lets out a shuddering breath, drops the duster with a _clack_ against the floorboards, and breaks the gap between them, hugging him hard enough for them to stumble backwards. He laughs, still dazed with shock. “That sounds perfect.”


End file.
